Oppression is the transgression of limits and the violation of the rights of others.
The most heinous form of it is oppressing one who has no helper but Allah.
Umar Ibn Abd al-Aziz said:
Beware of oppressing one who has no one to defend them against you except Allah.
Indeed, oppression in this world will be darkness for those who commit it.
The Prophet, peace and blessings of Allah be upon him, said:
Beware of oppression.
For oppression will be darkness on the Day of Resurrection.
O you!
The pleasures of the oppressors have vanished due to their oppression, while the shame remains.
They have moved to the abode of punishment, and others have inherited their homes.
They are left alone with the torment in the depths of those stones.
There is no rescuer and no companion.
No friend and no neighbor.
The poet Hashim al-Rifa'i wrote this poem.
From the perspective of an oppressed man.
He sent it to his father on the night of his execution.
My father, what can my fingers write?
While the rope and the executioner await me.
My father, what can my fingers write?
While the rope and the executioner await me.
This letter is to you from a cell.
Cold, with walls of stone.
Only one night remains for me to live.
And I feel that its darkness is my shroud.
It will pass, my father, I have no doubt.
And after it, my body will be carried away.
The night around me is a deathly silence.
And memories churn within my soul.
My pain overwhelms me, so I seek comfort.
In a few verses of the Qur'an.
My soul within me is transparent.
Humility has crept into it and shaken my being.
I have lived believing in Allah.
And only recently did I taste the sweetness of faith.
The silence is broken by the clinking of chains.
Which the fingers of the jailer have toyed with.
From a slit in the door, he watches his prey.
And returns in safety to his rounds.
I do not feel any hatred toward him.
What crime did I commit that his malice should touch me?
The tear of the prisoner there in his shackles.
And the blood of the martyr here will meet.
And the succession of drops will descend after it.
A torrent followed by the outpouring of a flood.
My father, if the morning rises upon the world.
And the light of the sun illuminates every place.
And the birds welcome the morning among the branches.
A new day, bright with colors.
And you hear the sounds of optimism flowing.
From the mouth of the milk seller.
And a knock comes, as is customary at our door.
It will be the jailer knocking at the prison door.
And after a moment, I will be swaying.
In the rope, suspended from the gallows.
I do not want you to live broken.
In the crowd of pains and sorrows.
For your son, shackled in his chains.
Has been led toward death, though innocent.
So remember the stories of the morning days.
That you told me about the love of the homeland.
And if you hear my mother’s wailing in the darkness.
Weeping for a youth lost in its prime.
And she hides the heartaches in her depths.
Pain she conceals from the neighbors.
Then ask her to forgive me, for I.
Seek nothing from her but forgiveness.
The ringing of her voice still echoes in my ears.
And her words spoken with mercy and tenderness.
"My son, I have become frail."
"I have no strength left for sorrows."
"So gladden my heart by searching for."
"A righteous wife, and leave your disobedience."
She had a cherished wish.
Oh, how beautiful her hopes and aspirations were.
And now I do not know in what state.
You will spend the night, or in what heart.
This is what I have written to you, my father.
Some of what is running through a suffering mind.
Until we meet under the shade of a justice.
Where judgments and the scales are sacred.
Until we meet under the shade of a justice.